


Bed Mates and Biscuits

by Wolfermann



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Adventure, Gen, Hodgson will never stop talking, Le Vescontes POV, Minor Angst, Newly formed friendship, Sassy Le Vesconte, Shared biscuits, Sharing a Bed, Use of the word moist, impending doom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2021-01-30 05:15:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21422776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolfermann/pseuds/Wolfermann
Summary: We've all seen how Gore's leads party went. But what happened on the shorter journey between Le Vesconte and HodgsonPrompt for the Terror Bingo: Goldner's Tins
Relationships: Lt George Hodgson/Lt Henry T.D. Le Vesconte, if you squint
Comments: 11
Kudos: 34
Collections: The Terror Bingo (2019)





	Bed Mates and Biscuits

**Author's Note:**

> I recently rewatched the episode Gore and realized that Le Vesconte lead the West leads party with Hodgson and was partially tickled by the idea of their interactions. I honestly have no idea who actually made up the crew, I tried to watch the scene to pick out some faces in the crowd but I couldn't (all white men look the same lbr). I picked a random selection of lads which may be inaccurate but this is my story anyways. I also like Reid being as Scottish as he was in real life. So I present a small picture of what it must have been like on the less dramatic groups exploration of the arctic.

Henry Le Vesconte piled on his beige slops while his friend and superior, James Fitzjames sat on his bunk, both men were awkwardly crammed together in his small cabin. There was a chipper feeling in the air among a bored and stagnate crew, as well as, the officers who enforced order around the trapped ship. Henry himself was excited to stretch his limbs and do more than just magnetic readings and watches. Two competitive teams from _Erebus_ and some from _Terror_ were asked to explore for any openings on the ice.

“I feel as plump as that dreadful officer’s wife on Saint Helena.” The silver haired man jested, wool gloves sliding down his overdressed torso to exemplify his figure. Fitzjames snorted in agreement.

“You’re going to need it where you’ll be heading, which I’m still cross Sir John refuses to let me go. I tried to remind him that I am still the reigning best walker in the service.” The Commander was still sore he was stuck to tend to the daily polishing of silver and Sir John’s long winded but well intended lectures.

“How ever will you cope without me? Without Graham either?” He retorted, checking his personal bag once more. A book, romantic and utterly hopeless as he liked it, his diary, and plenty of paper for sketching remained where he had placed them.

“Oh I’m sure I’ll find some way to manage, Dundy. There is one thing I had forgotten to mention,” Henry quirked a fine brow and looked up at James, daring him to go on. “Crozier got word of the lead parties and insisted at least one officer from _Terror_ needed to be represented. Sir John assigned one to those westward bound, you’ll be with Lieutenant Hodgson.”

“Hodgson?? Good God, really?” He couldn’t help the words as they poured out of him. James nearly cackled in cruel delight.

George Henry Hodgson, a wispy blond haired man with a short stature and nervous disposition was to be his travel companion for the next few days. Henry had quipped to Gore and Fitzjames on more than one occasion that Hodgson looked like he belonged permanently in the sickbay rather than in blues telling men twice his size what to do all day. A wave of dread overtook the silver haired man as he braced himself with the nearest wall.

“I still have you picked to win, if that eases your mind. And I served with him on the _Cornwallis_. George is fine company, I employed him for a reason.” Fitzjames stood, placing a confident hand on the other man’s shoulder, only for it to be shooed away the moment it made contact.

“Thank you, James. I appreciate your confidence.” Henry snarked, grabbing his personal bag and tossing on his coarse but necessary wool wig and cap. 

This was going to be a long, unbearable journey.

* * *

The party had a strong start with a full day of pulling between Le Vesconte’s crew of seven. _Terror_ had gratefully donated three of its inhabitants, among them Able Seamen William Wentzall and Magnus Manson (of whom Henry was convinced Crozier only allowed men aboard if their names began and ended with the same letter). His fellow _Erebites_ included the baby faced Marine Private William Pilkington, Captain of the Foretop Robert Sinclair (thank Christ not another William!), and Ice-Master James Reid.

And of course, there was Hodgson, pulling and blathering along with the rest of them. Henry was surprised that he had manage to keep pace with the rest of them and had insisted on pulling their hefty sledge for most of the day, though his enthusiasm seemed to wain as the sun set over the vacant ice. By then, Le Vesconte had ordered the men to stop hauling and set up camp before it grew too dark. It was still spring, they had yet to reach the summer skies of sun all day long. Daylight and saving whale oil were precious commodities and he intended to use them wisely.

The silver haired man stretched his aching back and arms while mentally calculating their distance for the first day. They had to have traveled at least seven miles, perhaps closer to eight. The send off had taken time from their walk but it was important that the men hauling saw their leaders care for their efforts (or try to in Crozier’s case). _Terror_’s Captain was probably dying to be back at his ship with a cut glass of whiskey in hand and his lapdog of a steward keeping the coals warm for him to hide out in his room all night. Everyone knew he was avoiding the rest of the expedition out of pettiness-

“Henry!”

_CHRIST!_

Le Vesconte nearly launched out of his heavy slops haven been taken by complete surprise by the pitiful dandy that he seemingly shared command with. He calmed and turned to face the shivering figure trying to gain his attention. 

“Oh, forgive me but do you have a moment? There’s a matter I was hoping to discuss with you as we prepare camp.” Hodgson continued to ramble on, seemingly unfazed by the fright he had just given the other man.

“Of course, George. What’s pressing you this evening?” Henry watched as the dandy removed his sun goggles, ones he insisted prevented the pressing danger of snow blindness of which he was happy to tell him all of the symptoms and tragedies associated with it. Hodgson looked up as his companion with moist cobalt eyes. Moist. That was the perfect word to describe the man.

“Well I see we have three tents available and I was concerned about keeping rank within the group,” Hodgson paused to wet his wind chapped lips, making Henry internally cringe and wonder what exactly the point of their discussion was. But much like anything with George Hodgson, it had to be convoluted and longwinded. “I was thinking how to divide the space, as surely we will have our own as officers among enlisted.” The silver haired man felt like he was about to lose his tepid exterior. Sharing a tent with Hodgson sounded horrendous, sharing a bedroll with him even worse.

“I don’t believe we need to maintain any rigid formalities. These tents can sleep up to four men, we can distribute them out on a needed basis.” If he could squeeze another body between himself and Hodgson, Henry could fair the rest of the exploration party. However, the blond seemed displeased with his answer.

“I suppose so. We could ask what the men want.” Henry felt relief, perhaps his crew would save him from his fate.

The crew voted to keep formality, happily taking two to three to the tents and leaving Le Vesconte and Hodgson to prepare for a long and cold night.

* * *

_Traitors. The lot of them._

Henry cursed as he clutched an opened tin, its lukewarm contents emitting steam into the arctic air while he sat at the small fire. He had grown so used to being served off of fine china but he had eaten worse out of questionable containers (or in some cases none at all). The scarlet of Goldner’s Patent tin looked more appealing than its contents, a gelatinous mix of what was allegedly boiled beef in some sort of gravy. He eyed the crew of his little party who seemed content in their rations, of course they would be having consumed whatever the cooks gave since the salted fish had run out. The silver haired man pushed passed his vanity, shoveling a spoonful of the mystery stuff into his mouth and swallowing before his tongue could catch up to the flavor. It barely needed to be chewed.

Everyone seemed content in their dinner, a cheerful mood sparked between them even though they all ached from the first days haul. Wentzall sang an off key tune, Reid delighted the Terrors with an ice related story ending with the punchline of “aye mester Jems nearly toppled ov’r the railin.” Poor Pilkington nearly had Goldner’s recipe for turtle soup come clear out his nose, which caused the rest of the men to collapse in a fit, Hodgson included. Henry noted curiously that the man had yet to touch any of his rations. If he was choosing to be picky now over what was on his plate, he was in for an even harder journey to come. 

Le Vesconte checked his pocket watch for the time, before stretching and signaling for the men to prepare for bed.

“Good first start gentlemen! If we have any chance at beating Gore and Des Voeux to the leads, we’ll need a good nights rest.” He grinned earnestly at the small group. They divvied out watches for the first night, disposed of refuse in a way that would not attract any wandering white bear, and turned to their tents for the night.

Over the merriment of the evening he had nearly forgotten his evening with George, who already waited for him in a clean layer of wool (which he was honestly thankful for at this point) and a lantern lit while he scribbled away in a small journal. Henry tried not to disturb his activities as he stripped off his wet slops and wool. He tried to do it quickly before the bite of the air around him stung at his already abused skin. He shivered violently, tossing on the cold layers, hoping they would warm with his body temperature. He had sailed around Russia, through the Bering Strait and it hadn’t ever been this bitter.

It was only then that he noticed a pair of cobalt eyes on him, perhaps they had been there the whole time watching Henry as he changed. He wasn’t so surprised, nor would he clutch at himself as if he were some proper lady caught in a state of undress by a peeping tom. No, he had lived with men for many years now, it rarely bothered him, and he took it as a compliment to his masculine physic.

“You know, the Eskimo sleep nude with one another. Captain Crozier told me at a dinner party about him and Mister Blanky being surprised by this practice but according to him, it’s much warmer than being clothed.” Hodgson stammered, setting aside his journal while his pale cheeks turned pink, like a fresh cherry blossom. Henry quirked a silver brow in response, pivoting to face his watcher.

“Are you wanting to get naked then, George? I’m afraid we are going to have to wait until our wedding night, and of course you’ll need to ask for my father’s permission first.” His lips curled into an amused smirk, watching Hodgson go from a pink to a crimson in a matter of seconds.

“I-I did not mean to insinuate such a thing- however, you look chilled and I was concerned for your health.” The other Lieutenant put up his hands defensively. Toying with him would be far too easy if this was how he started conversations. Henry kicked off his boots, before joining Hodgson in the sack. He instantly felt much warmer from George sitting there besides him. Maybe he could see how sleeping nude could make things warmer between bed mates. 

“I appreciate your concern. If you feel up to it, I won’t stop you from a good old fashioned friendly embrace. Unless you are serious about that marriage proposal, then I may allow something else.” Henry winked at the sputtering blond. The heat coming from Hodgson’s face alone could keep him warm until next spring. “I’m only jesting with you, George. Really no need to be so ill at ease.”

“Of course,” His bed partner laughed nervously before tucking himself in a bit. Things would not be uneasy between them, this he could tell. “I wanted to mention one thing before bed. I know you’re cold and tired, as am I but this is something I didn’t feel right about addressing in front of the men.” His wet eyes seemed to glisten more as he spoke.

“Go on then.” Henry moved to his side, both in interest and in means of keeping his tired body awake for another moment.

“The tin I received for supper, it was spoiled right as Mister Sinclair opened it. Like, perhaps, it did not seal properly to begin with. It was rotten, Henry. I worry that may be the case for the other tins in our possession.”

_Lovely._

This posed an entirely new set of problems. All they had for provisions was the tins and biscuits to sate them until they either return to the ship or found fresh game along the way. And the implications for the expedition….

“We won’t worry them. But do keep a record, one we can report to Sir John and Crozier. Thank you, George. With some of these you cannot tell if they’ve gone off or if that’s the swill packaged for us to begin with.” Henry quipped to lighten the burden that had befallen both men. Hodgson’s eyes lit up as a smile dared to venture on his face, one not so nervous this time. The blond reached over to snuff the oil lamp with one lazy hand, clearly exhausted from the days work. Le Vesconte too felt his eyes droop, even as he tried to push away flustered thoughts of their future.

“Very true. Good night, Henry.” Hodgson whispered, settling down close enough for warmth but still keeping his distance. Maybe his comments had irked the man. 

“Good night to you, George.”

* * *

The next morning five more tins turned up rotten and Henry had found himself entangled in Hodgson while they slept. Neither man mentioned it as they dressed for another heavy day of hauling. Nor did they mention it on the walk, though Hodgson told him all about his ingenious idea to keep his finger from freezing off and turning black.

“I wear two pairs of gloves, one light, under my heavy ones. Keeps the cold at bay during watch and so I can return home once again to play the clavier,” He grinned, brushing off a fresh patch of ice threatening to nestle into his facial hair. “You’re welcome to an extra pair if you’d like, Henry.”

“Thank you, George. I just may take you up on it later.”

They covered fifteen miles that day and by the time they ate their lukewarm rations and stale biscuits, the small crew collapsed into their tents. There was no watch instated that evening. No animals were sighted, nor any of the Inuit who roamed these lands. It was almost as if they had been marching towards oblivion.

Vesconte did not protest when Hodgson rested on him. His wispy hair wet from sweat and ice as he buried his mutton chopped face into the silver haired man’s chest. Henry held him with aching arms, desperate for the other man’s body heat.

“Good night, Henry.” He murmured, having not bothered to light the oil lamp to begin with. Henry closed his eyes and felt sleep take him.

“Good night, George…”

* * *

Another day passed, another five cans turned up rancid. Henry exchanged a worried look with George before tossing them out of the boat. Less weight to haul, more weight on his conscious. At this point onward he looked forward to the mindless chatter from his fellow Lieutenant (this time on the mushroom varieties found close to the arctic circle) or another rousing tale from Reid, even ones he had heard before while on _Erebus_. Anything to distract themselves from the biting cold, the cruel constant wind, and the bleakness before them.

By mid-day, they reached an impressive ice sheet that violently collided with the barren gravel that stretched endlessly before them, pushing the cold into an impenetrable hill above them. Le Vesconte held out his arm to signal for them to halt and rest while he inspected the path ahead. Reid stayed beside him to look at the direction and pull of the ice, only his worn eyes and years of experience could make out what lay before them. Henry nodded to Hodgson to join him on the painful ascent, both men nearly stumbling as they pulled themselves upwards on trembling, aching legs. At the top of the crest, the two Officer’s stared off into the endless sea of gravels and grey. There was no escape, not from this route.

_West is bust. Best hope Graham beats me at something for once…._

Henry put on a grin, one that would make Sir John proud. _All cheer, gentlemen_. He had taken his words to heart.

“Well lads, looks as if we have Gore’s lot beat but unfortunately there’s no sign of an exit going West. Even if it’s a dead end, Sir John will be welcome to hear our news and how swiftly we carried out our mission. I’m proud of our efforts, it’s been a long few days and a long trip back but we will all be home in no time.” Home was an empty promise if the ice didn’t open up any time soon, however, he left those thoughts behind to personally congratulate every man and give them a well earned rest. They would be back to hauling again in the morning but for now they were ahead of schedule.

He slid down the icy hill and passed through the small crowd, Mister Manson and Mister Sinclair seemed cheerful, while Mister Wentzall and Private Pilkington shared a cigarette between them, perhaps in contemplation or disappointment. Both men were harder to read than the rest. Mister Reid in his charming fashion wandered over him to give an assessment of the ice sheet, still “thick as shite and shan’t be fecked with.” Personally, Henry could use a tobacco pipe, warm bed, and a plate of fresh biscuits, fresh from the oven and waiting for him to devour. 

“Lieutenant Le Vesconte, sir? Is Lieutenant Hodgson alright? He hasn’t moved from the berg, sir.” Manson chimed in, his nerves clearly wracked by his superior’s behavior. How could he have so quickly forgotten, George? The man appeared perched like an owl above, gazing off into the distance. Henry made the climb again, this time thankful to kneel at the top besides Hodgson who seemed suddenly startled by his presence, a single freezing tear flowed down his cheek.

“It’s beautiful here, isn’t it, Henry?” He whispered into the winds. It wasn’t, at least in Le Vesconte’s eyes. He saw the arctic as a cruel and dangerous beast that he had to beware of with every step, but maybe to a man like Hodgson he could seek beauty out of the bleak.

“It is. Just a moment more then I’ll help you down. It’s slippery towards the bottom and I’d hate for any more tragedy to befall the expedition.” The silver haired man patted his companion’s back reassuringly. Hodgson only nodded, collecting himself and smearing the freezing tear over the rest of his cheek. He was an odd one but Henry was beginning to develop a soft spot of oddities.

* * *

That night was a benjo. Mister Reid had produced a small supply of whiskey for them to divvy amongst one another with their dwindling, under cooked dinner. The beef tomato seemed to taste better with a bit of liquid courage to stomach it down. There were songs, some dancing (Sinclair had taken it upon himself to teach Manson a proper party dance), and stories shared. Henry could weave a tale or two about his adventures, though he felt empty without Fitzjames presence. He had become so accustomed to tag teamed stories over dinner parties to make patrons laugh and ladies swoon (or young Gentlemen in James’ case [and perhaps his as well depending on the company]). It had only been three days yet he missed with his _Erebus_ companions for the first time since he had left the ship. He was surprised at how little he resented his fellow Lieutenant and bed fellow. He could see them becoming fast friends with more time forced together.

“Do you think,” He began later on in their warmed sack, a decent sack of biscuits passed between the two exhausted Officers as they conversed. “That Mister Blanky and Captain Crozier have shared a sack like the Eskimo?” Henry smirked viciously while George let out a pained groan.

“I do not wish to think of those two in any fashion, sharing any sort of bed, clothed or not. And I do not appreciate it since I have to return back to those two men and answer to them every day.” Hodgson retorted, pointing a gloved finger at his cackling companion.

“Fair, that’s fair. But if you’re still interested-.” He began before George brought his personal supply of treats down on Henry’s face, causing him to collapse into another fit of laughter. This angered Hodgson even more.

“No thank you! I only offered that fact out of kindness!” He huffed, rolling as far from his bed fellow as possible in their shared sack.

“And it would be very kind of you-.” He began, pushing again just one more time and earning himself another swat with the bag.

“Good night, Henry!”

“Alright then, George.”

* * *

They almost decided to strip the next night. It had been the hardest day thus far, between six more cans turning up rotten, leaving them with a meager two to share among seven men, and the walk which became so biting and harsh, it snapped one of the harnesses tethered to the boat making it harder for the group to haul. By now they couldn’t hide there was something wrong with the tins from the crew, though they seemed more miffed and confused than anything. They had yet to think beyond their supper, for that, Henry was thankful for.

He crawled into bed that evening, reciting a prayer that they would be back to _Erebus_ by midday at best over and over to keep himself composed. George was with him, barely able to take off his slops as his hands were shaking so badly (even with his multiple layers). Hodgson let out a frustrated groan before throwing off his jacket and piling in with his bed mate. Henry was quick to move to him, wrapping his limbs around the shivering man, trying to warm him despite also feeling impossibly cold himself.

_Oh if James could see us now. _

He thought, the cold and torment from today keeping him impossibly awake when his body screamed for rest. Henry continued to hold and rubs the other man until his shaking seemed to subside. Hodgson buried his frozen face in the other man’s neck, finding warmth and comfort in resting there. Maybe he was right that they shouldn’t allow the other men to see them like this, tangled like abandoned kittens eager for warmth, but Henry knew they others were probably doing the same as well. Sharing warmth could mean the difference between life or death after today.

“T-t-thank y-you.” Hodgson offered, his breath warm against Henry’s neck.

“No need,” His teeth chattered as he tried to speak, all he could manage was an echo above the harsh winds ripping at their tent. “Good night, George.”

“G-Good night, Henry.”

* * *

They arrived a little later in the day, frozen and starved at the giants on the ice. A thunderous round of applause greeted them upon their speedy return. Henry nearly collapsed when James came running over to collect him, he tossed off the harness and wrapped himself around his dear friend.

“I knew you would return before Gore! Good show, Dundy.” James grinned with pearly white teeth. He couldn’t tell him, no, not yet. He allowed himself to be lead back up the gangplank of _Erebus_. Sir John with his fatherly gaze congratulated him on a safe return and clasped him on the shoulder.

There was no one there to welcome Hodgson. But he was readily accepted on _Erebus_. He appeared half frozen, ice clinging to his yellow beard and chops, while he rested against the other Lieutenant. There was almost a trace of sorrow in his heart that they would have to depart and Henry would have to sleep alone. James would ask him later how he fared, how dreadful it was to be with Hodgson and would delight in hearing they had to share a bed. He would laugh at the Eskimo story at Le Vesconte’s expense. And then it would be a jest between him.

It took two weeks for Henry to sleep soundly again, even in the comfort of the ship and his own bed could not lull him to a lucid state. By the third night of it, he realized he was missing his bed companion. He wondered, perhaps, if George found himself missing him as well.


End file.
